


A Local Habitation

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Collaboration, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Illustrated, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-21
Updated: 2005-10-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At what point does a habit become a ritual?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Local Habitation

**Author's Note:**

> Illustrations by LinnPuzzle
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in 2005.)

Something interesting had happened to the patch of marshland while Crowley wasn't paying attention, though he couldn't say exactly why he found it interesting. Prime example of human idiocy, perhaps. It was the twelfth century and all, you had to excuse them, but even _then_ , who in their right mind built a hospital in the middle of a _swamp_?  
  
Crowley wrinkled his nose and ducked lower in the rushes. There was already water leaking into his shoes, so it made more sense to get rid of them altogether. He scratched his chin where a reed had been brushing against it, wiggling his toes in the wet muck. It hadn't been pleasant to crawl through back in the day, and it hadn't got any pleasanter.  
  
He wondered on what grounds he could write off spending an afternoon spying on a hospital for young ladies with leprosy. Harassment, maybe, or voyeurism. No, harassment wouldn't do; they didn't know he was there. And while the hospital was called St. James's, he doubted that St. James had actually had a hand in building it. In fact, he was willing to bet that good old Jim had stayed as far away as possible.  
  
Of course, that didn't rule out certain angelic involvement. It was, in fact, more probable that Aziraphale had had something to do with it than anybody else from Up There. The more Crowley thought about it, the more it made sense. The location in particular rang a familiar bell. The angel had an unaccountable fondness for mildew.  
  
From his vantage point, which wasn't really high enough to be considered one, Crowley could see through an archway and into the hospital courtyard. Every once in a while, a pale, veiled shape would cross his field of vision, then vanish again. He would bet anything that the hospital attendants hated night watch. The thought of running into the ghostly shape of one of those maidens in a damp, darkened hall sent shivers down Crowley's spine. He was all _for_ spooky, and he was willing to bet that St. James would have a fit if he knew what a spook-house his hospital was.  
  
One of the pale shapes lingered in Crowley's sight, and walked under the archway. It didn't move quite like a maiden, let alone a maiden with leprosy, and it was peering into the distance with a bit too much accuracy. It was peering at _him_.  
  
"Ohshit," Crowley muttered under his breath.  
  
Behind him, the reeds stirred. He turned his head and got a faceful of squawking and fluttering. He waved his arms wildly, shooing the confused waterfowl, and ended up flat on his back with a loud _splat_. It was some moments before his vision cleared, and when it did, he was sure there was a feather sticking to his cheek and that the figure standing over him with its hands on its hips could see that perfectly.  
  
"Dare I even ask?"  
  
Crowley scowled at Aziraphale, struggling to sit up. Now his clothes were soaked, from his second-best cloak right through to his first-best underthings. Oh, he'd have a hell of a time replacing those. He brushed himself off, but it didn't do much good.  
  
"It's in the job description, in case you forgot," he said testily.  
  
Aziraphale's brow furrowed in confusion, and he plucked the feather from Crowley's cheek with absent fingers. Crowley flinched away from the touch, landing flat on his bottom again. He struggled to his feet, gathering his last shreds of dignity about him.  
  
"Sitting around in swamps and spying on afflicted young ladies is in your job description?"  
  
"No, spying on _you_ ," said Crowley, lamely. "I, uh, guess that means you've won this one. Er. I've lost track. Have you got the vellum with you?"  
  
"No," said Aziraphale, looking as if it had only just occurred to him now that the situation was funny. He bit his lip hard, eyes sweeping over Crowley from his wet hair to his bare toes. "And I'm not sure I recall whose turn it is, either, though you certainly don't cut an impressively winning figure, if I may say so myself."  
  
"Thanksss," Crowley muttered, wringing out the corners of his cloak. "How chivalrous."  
  
Aziraphale broke into a pleased, unexpected smile.  
  
"Goodness, I hadn't known you kept up with the times! Lots of fine stuff being sung about the inns, of course, and it's a pity how little of it's actually being written do – "  
  
Crowley stalked off, narrowly missing the duck's nest in his path. At least now he knew why he'd found the bloody place interesting, and that divine stupidity could, indeed, drop a notch or two below human stupidity if it tried hard enough.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Crowley was reasonably sure that climbing trees had once been easier than it was now.  
  
However, the oak afforded him a very good view of the sparse woods below him, and it also kept his feet clear of the remaining marshy spots. Turning the derelict hospital into a palace and the swamp into a deer park had been a couple of the royalty's better ideas, but the current King – by Hell's way of thinking – had the best ideas of all. Crowley found the whole offing-his-wives business highly unpleasant, but he was obligated to approve.  
  
From the look of things, Henry wasn't in the mood for hunting today. It was a shame, too, because Crowley had seen at least a few choice hinds since he'd taken up his post late that morning. He was up there, of course, in hopes of catching sight of something technically less moral than hunting, but he'd heard that some humans didn't think all that highly of hunting, either. In the wood, the only sound was silence.  
  
Crowley snapped away an errant twig, rubbing his hipbone. Trees were no less invasive than reeds, but at least the ducks stayed out of them. He'd never had any great love for ducks. People thought they were endearing, and by people, he primarily meant Aziraphale. He also knew the Queen, or rather, whoever was Queen at the moment, to be fond of them. The phenomena of throwing bread at unsuspecting waterfowl seemed suspect somehow, and to no good purpose. Vermin with wings, Crowley thought. The only fun he'd ever got out of them was seeing if they sank faster than stones.  
  
In the underbrush below him, there were rustling footsteps.  
  
Clinging tightly to his limb, Crowley held his breath. Annoying habit, breathing, but it snuck up on you when you least expected it. They hadn't bothered to put it on the list of hazards that came along with occupying what was basically a more durable model of the human body. Whoever was rustling about below him seemed particularly interested in his tree. Crowley wondered if he was about to receive some competition from one of the palace brats. That little redhead had the Devil in her, and Crowley should know.  
  
"Doing a spot of bird watching, are we?" asked an annoyingly pleasant voice.  
  
"Yeah," said Crowley, plucking leaves ruthlessly until he could clearly see Aziraphale's face peering up at him. "Finally having some luck, too."  
  
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I've never seen such a fine goose."  
  
"Oh, cheap. Very cheap. I suppose you wouldn't happen to know an _actual_ goose from a – "  
  
"Heron? Stork? Kingfisher?" asked Crowley, imitating Aziraphale's hurt look. "No, because I can tell you that I've seen at least one of each of those since I got up this blessed tree, if not two. So don't you go lecturing me on the local wildlife."  
  
"You could get in a lot of trouble if they catch you up there," said Aziraphale, his look migrating from offense to disapproval. "In fact, _I_ could get you in a lot of trouble for being up there. Is that what you're playing at?"  
  
"Of all the royal arses you could've chosen to kiss, I have to say – "  
  
"Get," Aziraphale hissed, frantically, " _down_."  
  
Crowley glanced from side to side, suddenly aware of more rustling somewhere below him. He gave Aziraphale a reproachful look and slid down from the tree, hissing in pain as he caught a few snags on the way. Aziraphale caught him by the elbows once his feet were on the ground, steadying him, and straightened his cap. Crowley smacked his hand.  
  
"It was crooked," said Aziraphale, looking hurt again.  
  
"Yes, well, that's my problem, isn't it?"  
  
"You're about to have far worse ones," said Aziraphale, glancing worriedly over his shoulder at the sound of voices, "unless…"  
  
Several seconds later, Crowley's head cleared, but the fact that he was pinned up against the oak and kissed, not very expertly, by Aziraphale, within an inch of his immortality, did nothing to help him get his bearings. He also wasn't wearing breeches anymore, and his cap had turned into a headdress.  
  
After a good while of shoving at Aziraphale's shoulders, Crowley got his message across. Aziraphale pulled back, panting slightly, his cheeks a little flushed. He glanced over his shoulder, then off in the opposite direction, and smiled brightly.  
  
"There, I think they're gone."  
  
Crowley picked at his clothes, horrified.  
  
"That _really_ wasn't necessary. If you're a courtier, who bloody _cares_ if you're off snogging – "  
  
A vaguely familiar guilty expression peered out from Aziraphale's features.  
  
"Better safe than sorry," he said softly, and changed Crowley's clothes back with a wave.  
  
Crowley patted his cap to make sure it was the same one he'd put on that morning. It was, but there was something unfamiliar jutting out from the band. He plucked it out and blinked at it, then waved it, irritably, in Aziraphale's swiftly reddening face.  
  
"You could've at least made it a swan feather."  
  
"I thought you were _partial_ to mallards."  
  
For the second time, Crowley stalked off through the marshy grass. He wondered how much it would cost him to have a roast goose delivered to Aziraphale's quarters that night.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The redheaded brat, as it turned out, had grown up just fine.  
  
Crowley adjusted his mask, then took a swig of wine. Elizabeth was one of the more interesting rulers that this God-forsaken island had ever had, and she had even better ideas about what ought to be done with the soggy patch of property that her ancestors seemed quite determined the royal line should hold onto. Over time, portions of the land had been drained, and the water had been tamed into something more or less resembling a lake.  
  
The fireworks were spectacular. Crowley leaned back against his batch of pillows, not particularly interested in paying attention to the bunch of drunken courtiers with whom he was sharing a canopied boat. He was himself a courtier, of course, but that still didn't mean he felt obligated to talk to them. Most of them were intoxicated enough at this point that the pageant held less interest for them than did courtiers of the opposite sex.  
  
One chap stood out because he didn't seem interested in mingling with the rest, either, though he was also very clearly drunk. He couldn't quite sit up straight, and his mask was skewed so that his blue-grey eyes (Crowley could tell even when the sky glittered dark) were half shadowed by it. There was something suspicious about him.  
  
"You there!" called Crowley, pointing at the fellow, or at least roughly in his direction. "Whassyername?" Odd, but his tongue wasn't behaving the way it ought.  
  
The figure's glazed eyes widened for a second, and then its gloved hand figured out which of its fingers was the index and pointed questioningly at its own chest.  
  
"Yesss, you, ssssir," Crowley confirmed, wagging his finger. "C'mere."  
  
The figure looked as if it had great misgivings about this, but it stumbled to its feet and wobbled across the deck to where Crowley was sitting. Crowley patted his pile of cushions, and the gentleman (definitely male, he decided, though you couldn't be too sure, because some of the castle maids were running around in masks and trousers at his suggestion, terrified of being found out) plopped heavily down beside him. _Quite_ heavily. Definitely, definitely not a girl. Crowley shifted around and blinked at him.  
  
"S'good wine, huh?"  
  
"Ummm," said the gentleman, giving himself away rather blatantly, for even as drunk as Crowley was, his identity was instantly discernible by his slurred voice. "Yes. Um."  
  
"S'all right," Crowley reassured him, fishing around at his feet for his personal jug. "I've got more, ssssee?"  
  
"Whasswrong with your mask?" asked Aziraphale, hiccupping loudly.  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
"Your mask. Has it got…um…teeth?"  
  
Crowley took a full five seconds to process the fact that Aziraphale didn't recognize him.  
  
"Oh," he said, sobering somewhat, sitting up straighter. "Er, yeah. Teeth. Snake and all, see?" Not hissing was rather difficult, but somehow he managed. He indicated his mask with a flourish. "Sssita – uh. It's _Italian_."  
  
"S'verynice," Aziraphale murmured, trying to fill his goblet and soaking a bit of the deck around their feet. "Colors. Lovely, _lovely_ colors, and s'got glittery…"  
  
"Let me get that for you," Crowley said with even more effort, wresting the jug out of Aziraphale's leaden hand – not that his own felt any less leaden – and getting the goblet full on the second go. "Sssorry. Er, _sorry_. Bit tipsy, me."  
  
"I daresay," murmured Aziraphale, eyes wide again, instantly quiet as another fit of fireworks erupted overhead. He glanced up, almost fearful. "S'beautiful, isn't it?"  
  
"What?" asked Crowley, struggling the cork back into the jug before dropping it back to the deck. "Oh," he said intelligently, gulping down half of what remained in his own goblet. "Yeah. Absolutely 'mazing."  
  
The angel was giving him a look that suggested either that he was beginning to recognize Crowley or that he was about to say something poetic. Crowley didn't want to find out which. There was enough noise and general inebriation that nobody would notice his solution to the impending problem.  
  
Aziraphale tasted like wine first, and something else after. There was plenty of food to be had on the boats, but he'd apparently sampled such a wide variety that nobody kissing him would have any hope of actually sorting it all out. Crowley had meant for the kiss to be brief, after which he had planned on making some clever comment that would further obscure his identity, then on vanishing from sight. Instead, he found Aziraphale's muzzy, confused hum encouraging, and the wine-heaviness in his head swam and mingled with the kiss such that he didn't want to stop. One of his hands had somehow found its way inside Aziraphale's jacket, feeling gently along the line of his waist, and Aziraphale's hands were braced on Crowley's thighs, drifting lazily up and down. There was a sort of puzzled, urgent tightness in Crowley's belly, as if his body wanted to accomplish something, but the alcohol and the overall muzziness were confusing the issue.  
  
Crowley tore himself away, swinging around so that Aziraphale's hands slid harmlessly off his thighs. Aziraphale made a sound that began in disappointment and ended in anger.  
  
"That – exactly _what_ did you think you were – "  
  
"Shut up," said Crowley, doubled over his knees, feeling vaguely ill.  
  
Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder, turning him around again. The blue-grey eyes behind the mask were more displeased than Crowley had ever seen them, and judging by the lucid glint, Aziraphale had sobered up. Oh, _swell_.  
  
"Did you think I was too drunk to know – "  
  
"Yes," Crowley said, forcing hardness into his voice, taking Aziraphale's forearm in a vise-grip, "and no." It took far more strength than it ought to have, but he managed to flip the angel overboard in one more-or-less smooth motion. The splash was satisfying.  
  
" _CROWLEY!_ Just you wait – " there was a great deal of floundering, and some low, indignant quacking over a disturbed flutter of wings " – until I – "  
  
"Until you nothing," Crowley muttered, sinking down on his pile of pillows and closing his eyes. No amount of sobering up was going to fix this one, and with any luck, Aziraphale would be too embarrassed to admit to remembering it had happened.  
  
Guiltily, he made a mental note to toss his morning leftovers to the ducks. Nobody deserved _that_.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Charles was a boring king, right down to being the Second, though his sense of planning was superb. Crowley took this for a sign that Aziraphale had nothing to do with it.  
  
The thorough drainage was a brilliant innovation, as were the walkways. Crowley crunched along the sandy pebbles, enjoying the fact that the heels of his boots no longer stuck when he took a step. It was hard to imagine that, just a short distance from where he was standing, he'd once been on a boat. He scanned the landscape, trying to convince himself that the whole incident hadn't been that important. Times were changing, and so was the park. At this rate, he might one day be forced to admit that it was _pleasant_.  
  
He strolled onto the bridge and rested his arms on the railing. The water was now somewhere between a lake and a well-behaved river, and the islands had been stocked with a baffling array of birds, many of which had definitely not been there before. The ducks were paddling around below him, craning their short necks in expectation. He wondered if they found it insulting, all these intruders brought in from all over. They didn't seem to be starving, that was a sure thing. They ought to be grateful.  
  
"Ho! You! Over there!"  
  
Crowley turned his head, startled by the shout from the opposite bank. A man in drab, second-class, but official-looking clothing was waving his arms at – well, upon closer inspection, it wasn't the ducks. There was a gentleman knee-deep in the water with a young man on piggyback, and his intent appeared to be to cross to the island.  
  
"Sir, I regret to inform you that you must immediately cease and…"  
  
There were footsteps on the bridge behind Crowley, and they paused next to him.  
  
"Terribly unfair, spoiling his fun like that," said Aziraphale, with a frown in his voice.  
  
"I don't think so," replied Crowley, not bothering to turn and look at him. "It's for his own good. I thought your lot approved of that nonsense. Intervention in free will, et cetera."  
  
"For his own good?" echoed Aziraphale, apparently mystified.  
  
"Do you see those pelicans out there on the island?"  
  
"Well, yes, but I don't see what they've got to do with – "  
  
"Let's not even get started on those, then, because _these_ buggers right here – " Crowley indicated the ducks with a wave " – would tear you life from limb just to find out if you had a stale crust about your person before you ever _got_ to the pelicans."  
  
Aziraphale leaned on the railing beside Crowley, dubiously studying the ducks. They perked up again, eyeing him with beady, back-eyed hope.  
  
"But they're _adorable_ , the poor dears," said the angel, and reached into his coat. He pulled out a bit of tissue paper and unwrapped it, then tossed the biscuits into the water before conscientiously tucking the paper in one brocade-trimmed pocket.  
  
"It's all a ploy," Crowley reassured him gloomily. "Have you ever seen what the King gives them?"  
  
"Yes, but that's only once a day," said Aziraphale, giving Crowley a look of mild reproach. "One cannot get by on one meal a day."  
  
"And let's not forget the courtiers."  
  
" _We're_ courtiers. Er. Sometimes."  
  
"Point," Crowley conceded, resting his chin in his hands. He watched the ducks squabble over the biscuits, sinking one or two of the larger crumbs so they'd have to dive for them.  
  
"I think we ought to go for a walk," said Aziraphale, brightly. He took hold of Crowley's arm and hauled him away from the railing before Crowley could properly protest.  
  
Thankfully, "go for a walk" did not happen to mean "have a lecture on why one should not sink biscuit crumbs," or at least it didn't today. They crossed the bridge and continued to the opposite side. The walkway led on through a small orchard, and Crowley could see a small assemblage off amidst the trees. Not far beyond the strolling courtiers, a lone gentleman stood leaning against one of the slender trunks, rubbing something small, round, and red against his coat. He took a furtive bite.  
  
"I don't suppose I was about to be in nearly as much trouble as _he's_ about to be in," Crowley said, pointing. His capacity to hold a grudge hadn't been getting nearly enough exercise. "Somebody's going to see him."  
  
"Perhaps not," said Aziraphale, strolling along, unconcerned. "It's only a few apples, after all."  
  
"Only a _few_?"  
  
"Yes. He's got more in his pockets."  
  
Crowley took a closer look, and sure enough, the gentleman's pockets were bulging.  
  
"Say, I know that fellow."  
  
"Government," said Aziraphale.  
  
"Two-timing buggers," muttered Crowley.  
  
"Oh, I don't think so," Aziraphale said. "He's yours entirely."  
  
"What, on account of a few apples?" asked Crowley, really beginning to feel spiteful.  
  
"No, on account of the fact that he writes it all down. There'll be a record sure enough."  
  
At that, Crowley had to smile. He'd known New Year's Resolutions would catch on.  
  
"My dear, come along," prompted Aziraphale, tugging on his sleeve. "The sunset's due to be lovely."  
  
Not quite out of the mood to irritate Aziraphale, Crowley slid his arm through the angel's and picked up the pace. Besides, things couldn't get any worse. They weren't on a boat.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
St. James's Place, it would seem, was bent upon catering to Crowley's intent. It was showing more and more promise all the time. Crowley leaned on the bar and threw back his glass of scotch. There were very few places in which one could get pissed out of his mind and work at the same time. One day, multi-tasking would catch on.  
  
The club was rather high-class, but then, Crowley rarely worked any other kind. He'd spent a bit of time out front, making sure the first wave of drunkards setting out for home was behaving incorrigibly enough (a precaution, not a necessity), after which he'd retreated to the upper floors. The air was thick with sweet tobacco smoke, and even though Crowley had heard most of the jokes before, that didn't keep everybody else from fits of raucous laughter. They'd learn sooner or later that you could only tell one joke for so many centuries before it lost its appeal. Crowley smoothed his hair and slid his glass over to the bartender, whose cheeks were red over his loosely dangling bowtie.  
  
"Another or the same, sir?"  
  
"Mm, no," said Crowley, shuffling through his billfold. "Some gin might be nice."  
  
"Gin it is, sir."  
  
Crowley took a seat on the nearest stool, cradling his glass. Things were slow tonight, to be sure. He'd only seen one argument erupt over a game of cards, and the swears weren't up to snuff. Then again, he was feeling lazy, so he might as well count it as his night off and hope for better the next evening. He took a survey of the visible snuffboxes, wondering which one he ought to pinch for Aziraphale this time. The angel didn't seem to realize where most of Crowley's small, shiny gifts came from, which made the giving worth it. Also, it was good for the area tobacconists. They got more business.  
  
From one of the back rooms, a string ensemble struck up a bout of too-cheerful music. Crowley swallowed the last of his gin and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, grimacing. The one thing he wasn't sure about was that some of these places gave _dance_ lessons. Not ballet, no, but nancing about as one would do in a French ballroom did not fit the theme of gentlemanly drinking, gambling, and whoring. Not that whoring was gentlemanly by any stretch, mind you. Crowley kept clear of the details.  
  
The music started and stopped, ambled and jigged, for nigh on an hour. In that time, Crowley had consumed several more glasses, alternating between scotch and gin. He was beginning to think that this was not such a good idea, as it was worsening the harmonies rather than improving them. He ordered a glass of white wine instead, waving over his shoulder at a civil game of poker. The dealer mis-shuffled, scattering the cards across the table. A chorus of groans and shouts ensued.  
  
"S'more like it," Crowley murmured into his wine, blowing a bubble or two.  
  
The door across the room burst open, admitting a cloud of tobacco smoke and a whole crowd of chattering musicians. Crowley watched, horrified, as they took up residence in the far corner and started to play again. The crowd that had evidently been learning some dance-step or another milled in, chatting jovially amongst themselves. Far, far too sober, Crowley noted. He slid the bartender some money and told him to pour a round.  
  
"Sir, of what?"  
  
"Anything," said Crowley, turning back to his wine. "It's all the same."  
  
"On the contrary, it very much isn't," said Aziraphale, cheerfully, pulling up a seat beside him. "Scotch would be _heavenly_."  
  
"It's your funeral," Crowley muttered, sliding his empty wine glass across the bar. He wasn't feeling very well, and he was disappointed to realize that it was because he hadn't had the chance to spirit away the bartender's snappy snuffbox. It would have to wait.  
  
"Bit tipsy tonight, are we?"  
  
"Worse," said Crowley, passing one of the glasses of scotch to Aziraphale. "Cheers."  
  
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, and drank. "Out for a bit of entertainment?"  
  
"You might say that," Crowley said, examining the countertop. "'M not finding any, though."  
  
"You ought to have come to the back," said Aziraphale, patting him on the shoulder. "Tonight, we learned the gavotte."  
  
"I hate dancing," Crowley muttered, reaching for the nearest unclaimed glass.  
  
Aziraphale caught his hand and took the glass himself.  
  
"Really, dear boy. I've never seen you try."  
  
"I _can't_ dance," Crowley pointed out, noticing that the bartender and the entire array of bottles behind him had begun to swim in his vision. "Neither can you."  
  
"I don't know about that," Aziraphale said, drinking half the glass before sliding an arm about Crowley's waist. "There's nothing to it. I'll show you."  
  
Before Crowley could protest, he was being tugged off his stool and positioned such that one of his arms was around Aziraphale's neck and his other hand was clasped tightly in Aziraphale's. It was a good job the angel was holding him up, because he doubted that he'd remain on his feet otherwise. He'd completely lost track of time and drinks.  
  
"It's quite simple," explained Aziraphale, pulling Crowley in close with one hand at the small of his back. "What you do is – "  
  
What one did was, apparently, complicated, and did not translate well into English. Still, Crowley kept up – or, more accurately, stumbled – as best he could, and cursed the string ensemble for being so bloody obliging. Aziraphale's urgent instructions ("No, _no_! I said _left_!") were a blur in his ears, and several shoe-scuffs and stumbles later, they were being danced circles around by the other gentlemen bent upon teaching their own unfortunate friends. There was a flourish, then silence.  
  
Crowley clung to Aziraphale dizzily.  
  
"I don't think that was such a good idea."  
  
"Nonsense, my dear," said Aziraphale, dabbing his cheeks with his handkerchief. "You did fine."  
  
"Oh," said Crowley, as the pins and needles crept into his mind, and blacked out.  
  
Later, only he never knew how _much_ later, he woke to the sound of rain on the windowpane and enveloping softness. With half-closed eyes, he determined that the white blur in his vision was a pillowcase, that his clothes were gone, and that he was wrapped in a very fluffy robe that was too big for him. And that somebody was gently, sleepily rubbing his back. Crowley slipped back into dozing. He dreamed about falling overboard.  
  
When he woke again, he was in his own bed, and Aziraphale wasn't there.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
After dark, St. James's Park was a rather disappointing affair. They locked the gates, for one thing, though that wasn't about to keep out occult (and ethereal) forces that just wanted a nice, quiet walk after lunch at the Ritz and a long afternoon at the British Museum. A light rain was falling, so Aziraphale miracled them an umbrella.  
  
"So that's it, I guess," said Crowley, staring out across the darkened water. From the bridge, the island was perfectly visible even after sunset. The pelicans had all settled down for the night, and the ducks were offshore somewhere, _gakking_ softly to each other. "No big fanfare or anything. Just – " Crowley waved his hands, which were free since Aziraphale was holding the umbrella " – another sunset. And rain."  
  
"The weather's got to go on, too, my dear," said Aziraphale, in that all-too-reasonable tone of his. He shifted his grip on the umbrella and sighed. "And so have we."  
  
"Well, that's easy enough," said Crowley, sarcastically. "I'm sure that this dancing at the Ritz thing of yours will catch on faster than you can say 'ducks.'"  
  
Aziraphale gave him an odd, sidelong look.  
  
"What _is_ it with you and ducks?"  
  
"Don't know," said Crowley, shrugging, wrapping his arms around himself. "We've got history, those ducks and me. I knew their bloody _ancestors_."  
  
"So did I, let's not forget."  
  
"Yes, but you never got up close and personal with them," Crowley said reproachfully. "Or got their feathers stuck in your hat."  
  
"I meant well," said Aziraphale, mildly irritated. "You know that."  
  
"And I was only doing my job," Crowley pointed out, taking off his sunglasses. He wiped them on his coat, vaguely annoyed, before giving up and tucking them inside.  
  
"That's all we ever did," said Aziraphale, quietly.  
  
Crowley turned to him, wrapping one hand around Aziraphale's. Enough was, after all, enough.  
  
"I'm tired of it," he said. "But I'll never get tired of here."  
  
"Neither will I," Aziraphale replied, a strange look in his eyes.  
  
"Don't make me say it," whispered Crowley, tightly. "I've wasted enough time as it is."  
  
"Time is never wasted, my dear," said Aziraphale, untangling one hand from the umbrella. He tipped Crowley's chin up carefully, just looking at him. "It's simply time."  
  


  
  
Crowley stared at their fingers entwined around the umbrella.  
  
"Yeah," he agreed softly.  
  
"If you don't mind, let's not drink tonight," Aziraphale murmured, leaning very close.  
  
"Yeah," Crowley whispered, tilting his head.  
  
Aziraphale tasted like rain this time, and, beneath that, like hope.


End file.
